


Ad-libbed

by AtomicBloom



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Gen, Snippets, Trauma, fanfanfic, oh yeah
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-21 08:36:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13737159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtomicBloom/pseuds/AtomicBloom
Summary: Shockwave regained his emotions at the cost of his memory. Standing in the wreckage that had been his life, he struggled to find who he really was The Senator, or–There was no bit of deductive reasoning, no thought Logical enough to justify this.The Scientist.(In other words a BalloonArcade's Hypothesis fanfanfic. Oh yeah I went there.)





	Ad-libbed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BalloonArcade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BalloonArcade/gifts).



> Yeah, so this isn't going to make a heck of a lot of sense without having first read Hypothesis. The important thing you need to know is that, Shockwave, in order to regain his ability to feel did some horrific experiments on his Conjunx which lead to the birth of Sunstreaker and Sideswipe. It doesn't get any better from there. This going to be mostly disconnected snippets.

These Autobots have been welcoming, more than they ought to be. Shockwave should be out there, making connections, networking like a good Senate dog, but he's here, hiding in a dusty room. He wasn't unwatched, Red Alert had stringently insisted upon it as a part of his 'parole'. Orion— Optimus Prime did not look at him as he agreed. Prowl refused to be in the same room as him. He doesn't know what he did to him, which numbers on a file was the scene of his personal carnage, but he could extrapolate. He doesn't blame Prowl. He doesn’t want to be around himself either.

He just wanted some time to himself to think. He's not isolating himself, no matter what Rung said, if he had to listen to him call Shockwave _a victim of the Senate one more time he would—_ do nothing. Be meekly back in his office for the next session on the dot. This was part of his penance, if it made people feel safer, who was he to deny them?

He clenched and relaxed his hands over and over. Ratchet said the loss of sensation would fade in time. Psychosomatic. Shockwave knew the truth. It wouldn't, because these were not his hands, this was not his frame. He wasn't himself.

The door hissed opened behind him, another person come to gawk at the walking husk, but he does not hear the sound of footsteps, and he knew who it is with the clarity of hindsight.

He swiveled his head, trying not to move the rest of his frame. _Be a statue, a figment—_ It was like watching a rare bird land on your knee, careful, careful, now, don't startle him. Sunstreaker had come to visit. There he was, silent and nimble, skirting the edges of whatever room Shockwave was in like usual. He hasn't been able to talk to Sunstreaker. Somehow, he had managed to make Sideswipe laugh, full bellied, tears streaming laughter, but not Sunstreaker. No matter how he degraded himself it was never enough to get Sunstreaker to flash a smile. The last time Shockwave tried to speak to him, he was able to last one sentence of Shockwave’s fumbling, before he fled with Sideswipe trailing in his wake. Whatever Shockwave did to him was worse. It must be. In that lab there was a room next to Shockwave’s with a bed in it; sparkling height. Sideswipe, at least, had a place he was put when he was finished with him, but Sunstreaker, him. Shockwave kept where he could have unlimited access.

Sunstreaker has always watched him, the way he trained in the pits, he must be prepared by now, to do what the others cannot. Shockwave wanted to shout he would never, that's not him, it never could be— but that's not true at all, is it? He couldn’t say a word against the vigil. His voice went numb when he tried. He was, in fact, glad. Glad that at least one person knew the appropriate way to deal with this situation.

He missed his Conjunx. The torn edge of a bond the only lifeline left to him. They knew this silent figure. They would have known how to make things right. 

Sunstreaker got bored with his lazy circling, and pushed away from the wall. He moved in with predatory grace toward Shockwave. Was he going to—? Shockwave didn't deserve a final request, but he would ask for it anyways. He wanted to leave a note, a plea, don't punish Sunstreaker. It was for the best. _(fully deserved)_

Shockwave tensed, and relaxed his hands one more time, letting them fall to rest limply at his sides. He told his body not to tremble, this was a relief, and it was. Palliative care for when your patient was unsalvageable. He just had to stand still, and let it happen. 

He turned off the feed to his optic. He did not want to watch.

He waited, and waited, but there was no knife to his spinal strut, no blow to the head _(of course there wasn't, that's what the Senate—)_ He couldn't take the anticipation anymore and shuttered it back open.

Sunstreaker faced him standing before a pair of parallel bars. How had he not noticed them, this was a storage closet, they shouldn’t be here. Was he dissociating again?

He was rapt, his body turned to face Sunstreaker. He should go back to pretending to harmlessly observing the wall—

But

But

Face blank, Sunstreaker positioned himself, textbook perfect, in the starting position for Aeriform, 1st Mvt. Celerio. Shockwave couldn't get enough air as he started. Sharp, swift, he floated over the bars as he spun fast enough to dislocate a joint, if he wasn't careful. He twisted to alight on them for only a second, before he bounded off. He weaved himself through the bars, sinuously. Gravity couldn’t keep its hold on him.

Shockwave could count on one hand the times he had seen someone perform Caelus's masterwork of a dance, Moldau. The last time he had seen was when— when his Conjunx performed it for him.

It was almost a perfect recreation of it. Shockwave could see the ghost of them layered over top. The pivot of the foot, the arch of the ankle as Sunstreaker turned to clasp his hands behind him as he bowed his head in a gesture of sorrow.

This was a dance meant for two, twins. Sunstreaker danced like there still was. He curled forward to allow an invisible partner to pass, stood off center to mirror nobody. There was there weight here. The hand clenched around air, the rusted spark chamber, the starless sky.

The Moldau was meant to be joyful. Full of vivid movements, it was what hope would look like, if it were something you could see. An affirmation. The renewal of life. It was his Conjunx’s favorite dance.

Sunstreaker was lifeless as he did it, perfunctory, and void of any recognizable emotion. He must know what it meant, and be mocking Shockwave. He wished he had something to brace himself against as the 1st Mvt. reached its peak. How had Sunstreaker learned it? Did Sideswipe know how to do it too? When did his Conjunx have the time to teach them in those torture chambers? Shockwave would have never allowed— Oh, he realized distantly, oh. Shockwave had taught him something other than vivisection after all. He had misunderstood, he had gravely misunderstood. He couldn't feel his limbs anymore. His entire body was muffled, it was spreading from his hands. He had to tell Ratchet, but he couldn't move. _He couldn't move!_
    
    
        _Sunstreaker danced like a marionette, a pretty, pretty doll for Shockwave to play house with. Wind him up, watch him go, this is for you. Don't you feel special?
    Don't you feel L o v e d ?_
      

Love was their favorite endearment for Shockwave.

He—He— locked his Conjunx in a cell, _and then did this?_

It was a perverse distortion of the happiest moments of Shockwave's life. That monster, that vile, craven, pestilential, _monster!_ He polluted the memories that not even going under the Senate's knife had touched. He had fought to keep them, he had loved, and had been loved. He never wanted to forget that. He would have offered every speck of happiness, every blot of adoration, if he had known it what it would lead to.

There was no bit of deductive reasoning, no thought Logical enough to justify this.

Sunstreaker slowed, arms swung for the Tacetia 3rd Mvt., Shockwave had missed the second. He should have watched. This performance, he knew, was to please him.

He found his legs at last, he couldn’t, he couldn’t, _please._ He stumbled blindly to the door, _(when did he turn off his optic again?)_ He had never been prone to cowardice, but like regret it's something he has learned. 

The door closed blessedly behind him. He needed to find Ratchet or Rung. Those words were the rhythm to which he seesawed forward. There were people in the hallway, a smear of concerned faces, but they were not Ratchet or Rung, so kept moving. He would bump into one of them eventually, or fall into a pit of scraplets, either would do. 

**Author's Note:**

> Did it feel a lil jerky? GOOD! It was supposed to. I have no idea how well I captured the feeling of dissociation, but hey I did my best. That's all you can ask for from me.


End file.
